North State Voices: Muddy line between fantasy, reality

Our race is the same. Our socioeconomic background is the same. We even share a similar religious upbringing. However, my husband likes science fiction, fantasy and video games, and I do not.

If he were contributing to this column, he would point out that I often play electronic versions of Scrabble and Sudoku, and that they are by definition video games. He would then give me his "this makes you a hypocrite" look.

But he is not contributing to this column, so I'm free to explain that my definition of video games does not include Scrabble and Sudoku for a very simple reason: they do not involve the use of a joystick or arrow keys to control the actions of characters who violently pursue villains, mine for cube-shaped building materials, or cultivate zombie-killing crops.

Furthermore, the interface for Scrabble does not involve a split screen nor require the pulling up of various inventory displays that muddle the visuals into chaos. When my children proudly invite me to look at what they built in Minecraft, I can only pretend I'm impressed. In actuality, I'm utterly perplexed and might as well be trying to read Chinese.

As a rule, I resolutely avoid books and movies that are set in unreal worlds. My interest is in well-crafted characterizations, subtle twists on the ordinary, and human emotion to which I can wholly relate.

I remember being made to read "Watership Down" when I was a young adult. I kept waiting for the rabbit part to be over so I could get to the real story. The human story. I was truly disconcerted when I realized the rabbits were the story.

I simply didn't get it. The characters' names were unpronounceable, but when I discovered there were sections of the book titled "Notes on Pronunciation" and "Lapin Glossary," I felt inclined to look around for the candid camera. Was this a joke? Was I really supposed to educate myself on the pronunciation of words in a made-up rabbit language so that I could better understand the made-up rabbit culture in which they spoke and worked and did other unrabbit-like things?

If my husband were contributing to this column, he would point out that I am an avid fan of the Harry Potter series, which undeniably belongs to the fantasy genre. He might have a point, of course. But since I am the one contributing here, I submit that J.K. Rowling provides a credible bridge between the real and the fantastic in her series and that in every other respect, it meets my standard. She is a genius at characterization, brilliant at twisting the ordinary, and skilled at stirring up in me empathy for all her heroes. And so she gets a pass. I deem her an honorary normal author, not a fantasy one. (She would be so pleased).

Fortunately for the stability of my family, my husband draws his line somewhere before cosplay (the phenomenon whereby otherwise stable adults dress up as their favorite sci-fi or fantasy characters and get together to play).

Where I draw my lines — and my stubborn defense of them — seems to recur as a disputed topic in my mixed marriage. I operate with the assumption that most people are like me and people like my husband are few. This gives me license to roll my eyes at my hubby's hobbit habit.

But if he were contributing to this column, he would point out that the "Lord of the Rings" movies grossed over $3 billion. That's "billion" with a B, and it doesn't even include DVD or merchandise sales. It doesn't take being hoodwinked by Orcs to realize that's quite a feat.

Though my husband is not contributing to this column, he's done more than his share to contribute to those profits, and that gives him license to roll his eyes at the fantasy I live in: He is the outlier, I am in the majority, and electronic Scrabble is not a video game.

LaDawn Hall is a Chico resident and columnist for North State Voices, which appears each Thursday.